She waited.
As one can only do when one is alone and quiet.
Waited for a story to come,
for the last shrill tear of the seagull’s call.
Waited for the final shred of warmth
from the autumn sun’s rays.

In the silent, stirring, yearning depths of herself
an unheard song like a hushed whisper
called for some magic to weave itself into a spell
that danced on the page.

She felt nourished by tales of wizards
chased by shadows
and turning to hunt the darkness
with a staff bleached in light.

And she longed to tell a tale
not unlike those she poured over;
thinking that maybe in that
lay the quenching
of her soul’s thirst.